


Green Skies

by graceandkooky



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Angst to Fluff, F/F, Happy Ending, grace-focused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-30 22:31:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12662766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceandkooky/pseuds/graceandkooky
Summary: One shot.“Though Grace has never been one for sensing things, it feels like a storm might be brewing – might be about to slug her in the jaw and leave her with a mouthful of grit and blood. Because sheknowsFrankie – knows her like her own skinny knees – and the faraway look that her friend wore all evening had sent sirens off in Grace’s ears – prickled against the back of her neck."Frankie’s staying but she’s more distant than ever and Grace doesn’t know how to fix things.





	Green Skies

**Author's Note:**

> I’m really not happy with this piece at all and I may take it down, both from here and tumblr, but I wanted you guys to have something as you’ve been so patient. Read away until then if you fancy it!
> 
> (If I keep it up, I’ll edit mistakes out periodically but it might be a little rough around the edges for now.)
> 
> Check out my tumblr for more fics/updates: @graceandkooky

Grace slides her knife through the last chunk of apple in front of her and then carefully collects the slices, dropping them into a blue, speckled bowl. _One of Frankie’s favourites._ She squeezes a little lemon juice over the top and stows the pieces away in the fridge for later. _Maybe a cobbler would be nice, or a fruit crisp._ She’s getting better at putting leftovers to good use. The other remnants of a joyful – _albeit chaotic –_ Halloween are strewn across most of the surfaces in the house and she spies a small witch’s hat nestled between two pumpkins. Her mouth tugs into a small smile despite herself. The night had been filled with silly games and laughter (Maddy and Macklin squabbling over peanut butter cups; Brianna pelting Mal with pumpkin entrails) and had even seen Grace crowned apple-bobbing champion. _Who knew? Suck on that, Robert._ A family occasion had, for once, almost been perfect. _Almost._

But something isn’t quite right in the air. Though Grace has never been one for sensing things, it feels like a storm might be brewing – might be about to slug her in the jaw and leave her with a mouthful of grit and blood. Because she _knows_ Frankie – knows her like her own skinny knees – and the faraway look that her friend wore all evening had sent  sent sirens off in Grace’s ears – prickled against the back of her neck. A few times, when she’d managed to catch her eye, Frankie had offered her a weak grin, but there was something strange about it that Grace still can’t quite pinpoint. And then Frankie had retreated to her studio without even touching her pizza – _a regular pizza, restriction free_ – and that’s when Grace’s gut really kicked it up a notch and started auditioning for the role of stunt double.

She perches on a barstool, tapping her thumb against the handle of her now-lukewarm green tea. She considers her options. _Something is really wrong,_ she’s sure of it _._ They haven’t talked much since last week when Frankie told her – with a handful of garbled words that sounded like they were passing through a strainer – that she’d decided to stay. _A few blissful sentences that brightened up Grace’s insides like a pulled Christmas cracker._ And it seems, increasingly, like Frankie’s rolling words against the tip of her tongue before she speaks – trying them on for size – but mundane chatter is all Grace has coaxed from her so far. _Better than nothing. Better than a whole lot of house with a whole lack of Frankie._ Grace is toying with some words of her own as well – wondering how long she can stand this weird distance before she snaps and says something earth-shattering. _Probably earth-shatteringly stupid._

Grace had nursed a brief hope that the party might help to lift Frankie’s spirits – might bring back that dazzling smile that lights Grace up like a launching rocket. But somehow, the glow of it all seems to have made matters worse. She sighs, taking a sip from her mug and wincing at the slight bitterness. A martini would be nice right about now, but she’s trying her best to stay level headed. A booze-fuelled haze is definitely a bad idea, tempting as it might be. _God, what is she going to do?_ She needs to talk to Frankie, that much is painfully obvious, but she’s coming up short on anything beyond that. _Fantastic. Amazing progress on the ideas front. A+._ The thing is, Grace has her own problem – one that’s been gradually working its way into her bloodstream more stealthily than vodka and vermouth could even dream of. It’s a growing realisation that she can’t drown out no matter how many glasses she knocks back in one sitting – no matter how many assholes she dates. She’d tried, _so hard_ , but it refused to be pushed aside – eluded all her efforts. _She’s totally screwed._

There’s not a single atom of her that wanted Frankie to leave – _fuck, even the thought is nauseating –_ but even less of her wanted Frankie to be unhappy. So in the end, she’d told Frankie to go – to live out her wild, uninhibited life in Santa Fe, _or whatever bullshit Jacob filled her head with_. It was like setting fire to her own house and maintaining an Oscar-worthy smile throughout. _Crippling._ But Frankie stayed anyway and gave fuel to Grace’s hopes, only now she’s miserable because of it. _A disastrous crash-landing. What kind of karma has this much beef with Grace, seriously?_ And misery loves company so, lo and behold, they’re both in this heavy space, dragging themselves through the day-to-day like silent zombies. _Te-fucking-rrific. Well played, Venus._

The tea is cold enough to be a write-off so Grace pushes it aside, resting her head, briefly, against the island. _What a mess._ Truthfully, the pain of Frankie’s near departure still digs at her ribcage like a persistent thorn – still leaves a foul taste in her mouth. _She’d so nearly lost her – came so close to total fucking agony._ But now it seems like she’s lost her anyway – like the physical distance that was almost between them has morphed into a seismic verbal gap that she doesn’t know how to bridge. _At least she could locate New Mexico on a map._ This – _this –_ is an emotional clusterfuck that is somehow, unfathomably, more unbearable than the prospect of grainy video chats and protracted plane rides. Frankie’s close enough to touch – _god –_ but she’s never felt further away.

Grace shakes her head, trying to jolt herself out of the dark spiral that her thoughts, of late, tend toward. _This is fixable,_ she promises herself. _It has to be. Jesus_ , this is Frankie, _queen of divine communion and the sharing of soul-stuff - of living your truth._ Whatever the problem is, they can figure it out together, _even if that involves a talking stick and a couple of strong tokes_. Mind made up, she slides two triangles of pizza onto a plate and warms them in the oven for a few minutes. Whatever’s going on, Frankie really needs to eat something. Grace scoops up her peace offering, steals a shaky breath, and heads to the studio.

After a few tentative knocks, Grace hears Frankie’s faint invitation to enter vibrating through the door. She walks inside, sidestepping the littering of paint cans on the floor until she reaches Frankie’s latest creation. _Holy smokes._ Her feet seem to stick to the boards in front of it, keeping her in place as her eyes dart over the delicate brushstrokes. _Wow._ It’s beautiful, yet haunting somehow – a portrait of a lone swan on an otherwise empty lake. The sky is green and yellow with a splodge of red – _very Clarice Cliff –_ but then Frankie’s art is never exactly conventional. Another knot forms and tightens in Grace’s stomach, though she’s not sure why. _What else is new?_

Finally, after regaining faculty over her legs, she treads closer to Frankie, locating her curled form beneath a llama’s wool quilt on the bed. She places the food on the nightstand and smiles at the few curls peeking out from the covers that conceal Frankie’s face. _Space can get fucked – too much has already had its way._ So Grace carefully lowers herself to sit on the patch of blanket in the crook of Frankie’s limbs. It’s now or never, and _never_ is something that she can’t allow – is a prospect that’s driven her to the bottom of the bottle more than once in recent weeks. _It’s time._

“Hey partner, thanks for leaving me to clean up the carnage,” Grace teases, swatting the leg next to her hip. Frankie stirs slightly, prompting her to continue. “I brought you some pizza. You know you should really eat something.”

Frankie offers a muffled groan then pokes her head out from her lair. “I’m not hungry. But thank you.” She’s sucking her lip and peering up at Grace with tired, red-rimmed eyes. _Oh hell._

Grace sighs, running a gentle hand over Frankie’s covered waist. “I think we need to talk, don’t you?” She shoots for a grin but the crack in her voice is unmistakable. _Awesome job. Nailed it._

Fabric rustles as Frankie sits up and folds down the quilt across her lap. Grace twists her torso so that they’re face to face and observes her quietly. It’s obvious that Frankie’s been crying and, now that she’s able to see her properly, it seems like she probably has been for days. Dark circles hang like charred paper against her ashen cheeks. Frankie doesn’t speak but she nods, unfurling her fingers and reaching out an open palm across the blanket. Grace slips hers into it without a second thought.

They sit in the silence for a long time, each moving their thumbs softly in affectionate circles against the backs of each other’s hands. Grace’s heart is beating so fast she’s sure Frankie must be able to feel her pulse quivering. The stillness of the moment is beautiful – _healing –_ but there’s so much that they need to discuss. _Before it all boils over like a volcano spilling into dormancy. Pompeii 2017._ Summoning up all the nerve she can muster, Grace breaks the spell.

“I’m glad that you’re painting again. Your new piece is really something.” _Okay, so it’s not exactly groundbreaking communication, but it’s a start._

Frankie tenses, halting her mild fingers. She breaks Grace’s gaze for a moment, glancing warily in the direction of her canvases. Then she’s back, staring straight into Grace’s eyes with an intensity that Grace struggles to place. _Has her brain short-circuited? Nice._

“Did you know that a swan can die from a broken heart?” Frankie looks down at the tassels on her dress and her breaths start to sound suspiciously like sniffs. “Without their mate they can literally die, just like that. Game over.”

Grace can feel a lump growing in her throat as she chokes back the sting of Frankie’s words – swallows against the sour tang of bile. This is even worse than anticipated. _She’s going to have to say it all again and she doesn’t know if she’s even brave enough._ The knots in her belly are apparently intent on weaving one of Frankie’s rainbow-knits. _Fucking ideal._

She clutches Frankie’s hand firmly, feeling the cool metal of her rings digging into her skin. The pain is biting but she welcomes the momentary distraction. _Oh, to hell with it all. Cue the performance of a lifetime._ “I know Jacob left already but it’s not too late if you still want to go.” She draws in steady drags of air, trying to loosen her tongue, which clings like treacle to the roof of her mouth. “One of the boys could drive you up there, or I could if - ”

Frankie waves her free hand in the air, shaking her head as a whimper escapes her lips. Twin droplets run down her cheeks like fleeing prisoners. “I _can’t_.” Seeing Frankie cry nearly undoes Grace – nearly sends her scrambling toward the door. She can’t handle it, because all she wants is to _– oh lord._

Frankie’s happiness is more important than anything else – _the most_ important thing to Grace. _Act Two – Send in the Clowns._ “Listen, I know you’re scared, Frankie. Hell, I’m scared, too. Change can be a real tricky customer.” _God - understatement of the year._ She fakes a hollow chuckle then straightens her spine. “But I told you before – you can’t let fear keep you here.”

“I know you did,” Frankie mumbles, absentmindedly bringing her other hand to also rest over Grace’s. She resumes mapping the smooth skin with her fingertips. The soft motions soothe Grace’s heart even as it hammers erratically. These kinds of conversation have never been her forte but she feels more at sea than she ever has. _Think_ _Rose in Titanic holding on to a lost cause – that powerless._

“Tell me what I can do to help and I’ll do it, I swear.” She figures honesty is the best policy when she’s this in over her head – _less moving parts to remember_. Her small voice leaks out. “I just want to hear you _laugh_ again.” _Shit,_ where did that come from? _Certainly not her brain,_ though it’s undeniably true.

Frankie’s eyelashes flutter and the kohl sockets beneath are almost translucent in the dim light. _She’s heavenly._

A pop echoes as Frankie bites her lip and releases it. “Did I ever tell you about Spring Break 1961?” Frankie’s murmur soaks through Grace’s pores, sending pleasant ripples to each of her vital organs. The mere sound of it has added ten years to her life, she’s sure. Grace shakes her head: no.

“My friend Debbie and I met these guys at this outta sight rave on the east coast. They were peeling out on a trawler the next morning and – long story short – we ended up hiding under a tarp, knee-deep in fish guts and bound for Norway. It wasn’t my slickest decision but we were pretty wild back then.”

Frankie pauses, shimmying the quilt further down and shuffling over, patting the mattress. “Cozy up to a pillow, little glow bug. Give your back a rest.” Grace eyes the gap for less than ten seconds before moving forward.

She nestles beside Frankie, losing hold of her hand as she gets settled. But then, positions flipped, Frankie tugs at her other arm and Grace feels delicate fingers winding through her own. Apparently she’d been too dazed to properly notice before – too lost down the worry-tunnel – because it suddenly hits her like a rogue sledgehammer. _They’re holding hands._ Frankie’s glowing, satiny skin is pressed flush against her own and it’s _mesmerising – divinity in action._ She hardly dares to breathe.

Experimentally, she squeezes Frankie’s palm and Frankie squeezes back. _Fuck._ Somehow this is the most profoundly intimate thing she’s ever experienced in a bed – _experienced anywhere_. It’s as if her fist is sending tingling sensations right to her heart. Grace struggles not to stare at Frankie too much but it’s a battle she’s having trouble with – her eyes frequently drifting to the whirlwind beside her, all serenity and blazing starlight. She’s embarrassed by her lack of self-control but, with each stolen glance, she grows more and more confident that Frankie is looking right back. _Jesus Christ._ She’s relieved when Frankie picks up the slack of her story because she’s lost the ability to control her tongue.

“I was buzzing. My mom had a book all about the Northern Lights and I used to spend hours tracing the swirling patterns with my fingers. I’d fantasized about seeing them someday and there I was, en-route to realize my dream. Granted, I’d not figured the intense hum of fish into the equation, but hey, _c’est la vie_.” Grace’s mouth twitches and Frankie’s eyes crinkle more in the corners as she shoots Grace a sideways glance. _They’re mending._  

“Anyway, we had to wait for a couple of days after we docked – spent some pretty fucking freezing nights in our little shack, I tell you. Thought I was gonna lose my toes for a while there.” Frankie chuckles but it’s miles away from her usual laugh – sounds more derisive, more forced. “But the boys came and told us it was finally show time and we set off, ready to have our minds blown.”

Frankie clicks her tongue, shaking her head. The familiar soft peace that she radiates is undisturbed but Grace can tell that she’s wrestling with something significant. Frankie pats the back of Grace’s hand gently and then smoothes her fingers upward, stroking her forearm and tickling her wrist. _Shit._ Grace wonders if Frankie can feel the goosebumps rising like tiny flowers across her bare skin. _Tiny traitors._

“But when it came to it – that life-defining moment I’d dreamed about for months – years even – I couldn’t fucking look up. Can you believe that? I stared at the water in front of us and watched the lights dancing over it – like ink blooming in all directions. It wasn’t the real thing but I was too damn terrified to lift my freaking eyes.” Frankie’s lip wobbles and Grace knows that she’s teetering on the edge of crying herself – feels like Louise Sawyer contemplating the edge of the cliff. She's sick to her stomach.

And then Frankie’s face crumples, giving way to a multitude of tears that Grace wonders if she might have been holding back for a lifetime. She considers wiping them away but she’s practically numb – nerves shot to the bone by Frankie’s still-moving fingertips. _God, she’s beyond fucked._

“It doesn’t make sense, I know, but it didn’t make any sense then either.” A tiny shockwave zips up Grace’s spine, bleeding out into a slow-growing warmth. Frankie’s _always_ just warm somehow, like a human sunbeam. And now Grace is fully alert – absolutely focused on Frankie’s words – because she’s starting to think that maybe –

“Debbie elbowed me in the ribs in the end. Told me to quit spacing out. I guess she thought I’d smoked too much MJ.” Frankie leans her weight against Grace, bringing those bouncing curls closer to her nose. _Shit._ “And when I finally did look up – when I finally switched off my stupid panic-broadcast – oh, Grace, I wish you’d been there. The water didn’t hold a candle to them. The lights – they were fucking magnificent. Spiritual. I knew I’d never be the same again. And I think that’s why I’d freaked – why I came so close to never seeing them at all. I thought nothing would ever compare.”

Grace is holding her breath, waiting for Frankie to start singing Heartbreak Express again and googling speedy rail journeys. _She can’t bear that._ But then Frankie tugs her hand, leading her out of the bed and once again nose to beak with the pale swan. She slides the canvas to the side, slotting it next to the one behind it on the easel, and Grace’s own heart stops beating in her chest - ascends. The pictures fit together – two elegant swans under brilliant emerald heavens. _The Northern Lights._ And Grace realises that the red shape she’d vaguely registered earlier – that she’d dismissed as an abstract blob – was one half of a vibrant balloon. _Sweet fucking Jesus. She’s done for, well and truly._

They remain still for a few moments – Grace entranced and Frankie meditative – before Frankie raises their joined hands, pressing her soft lips against the valley of Grace’s knuckles. Grace tries valiantly, _with limited success,_ not to squirm. And then Frankie speaks, sending everything into technicolor. “You’re the aurora borealis to me, Grace, only more beautiful. And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same but I _can’t_ leave this time. I won’t.”

Suddenly dizzy, Grace shuts her watery eyes – tries to stop the ground from falling away underneath her. _Is this real? Were those apples laced with LSD?_ She feels shaky – wishes for a chair to sink into. Because this is it – _everything_ – the truth that she’d hidden from for months – that weighed her down like a platinum anchor. And after all her attempts at denial failed to stick, Grace had slowly but surely started to let herself, little by little, embrace this new reality – to unbury her deepest fears and run a tender hand over their edges. _Making monsters into miracles._

The Grace standing here, now, is a Grace who can admit to herself, honestly, that if she and Frankie were two lines running side by side, she’d want them to intersect – want her once rigidly straight mark to curve, deliriously, into Frankie’s. But she’s spent so long resigning herself to the fact that her secret would have to remain a secret – that she’d die with a melody inside of her that she’d never hear played out loud. She’s dumbfounded. _Immeasurably overwhelmed._

“Frankie – I - ” Grace scrambles for words, trying to string together letters in her head. _Fuck._ She can count on one hand the number of times in her life she’s been genuinely speechless and this is _not_ a good moment to be adding to that list. _Thanks a lot, universe._

“It’s okay, Honey. I get it,” Frankie assures, though her voice is laced with diffidence and hitches into a rasp. Her expression stays kind but Grace can see anguish creeping into her eyes and her smile seems stiff and forged.

 _Oh holy hell, no._ Grace can’t let Frankie doubt herself for even one more second. So, words failing, she tries a new tack. Throwing caution to the wind and telling her fears to go fuck themselves, she hits the accelerator and drives the Thunderbird into the canyon, angling her lips over Frankie’s desperately.

Frankie makes a small, mewling sound and tenses for a brief moment upon impact, but then she melts, smiling against Grace’s open mouth. An eager palm glides across Frankie’s back – her supple waist – her narrow hip. The frantic kisses gradually become more languid, evening out into deep, messy strokes. Grace registers the sharp scratch of trimmed nails against her scalp and she has to pull away to let the elation bubbling in her chest spill out, giggling with relief. Frankie laughs, too, swatting away the drying tears from beneath her eyes, and then draws Grace’s lithe body against hers, hugging her tightly.

Later, Frankie kisses Grace again, over and over, leaving no scrap of skin unattended by her fingertips. It’s unhurried and tender, and Grace has to wrap her willowy arms around Frankie’s neck to remain upright, _though maybe horizontal would be even better._ As off-balance as she is, Grace manages to steer them toward the edge of Frankie’s comforter and they tumble onto it – a poorly arranged tangle of limbs and hair. _That’s gonna come back to haunt them in the morning, but for now, fuck it._

The strap of Grace’s peach slip peeks out from a fallen sleeve as she leans back slightly, chest heaving and lipstick virtually a crime scene. She beams down at Frankie, thanking whatever planets – whatever celestial lights - have aligned in her favour. “I love you,” she purrs sweetly, her tongue finally choosing to play fair. _Probably blessed by Frankie’s – that seems about right._ Before Frankie has time to respond Grace hurtles on, exquisite bliss propelling her forward. “So much. You’re my swan, too, Sweetheart.” The earnest delivery jars with the absurdity of the sentiment and a fit of giggles overtakes them again as they cling to each other. It’s surreal – _magical, really_. And when they rise together tomorrow, their own, amber sky will be there to greet them.

**Author's Note:**

> Some parts of the writing process were honestly like pulling teeth with this one so I've lost the ability to judge it without bias.  
> Please comment if you liked it so I know whether to keep the story up.


End file.
